Frasalu was full of a strange sort of vigor when she put on the golden mask again. Sothvam helped her, securing the leather buckles in pce, before she did the same to him, eyes lingering on the way his tunic draped across his lithe, muscur shoulders. She and he were both dressed in the greatest fineries witchcraft could acquire, gleeful at the trickery that was to ensue, and most of all, empowered by the sense that there was an actual pn at py.

  Frasalu and Sothvam weren’t the only ones. The entirety of the once gang, now spy ring, was gathered together for the first time in ages, chattering amongst themselves while they put on their disguises as the supposed secret society which ruled Chrysopolis. Once more, it was time for them to begin interfering in the life of the Senator Bellerophon, and they were relishing the opportunity. They were also relishing the opportunity to dress up. Even if it was all falsehood and facade, the silks and gold could not help but inspire confidence. Frasalu thought it fascinating, the way that the outfit, as if by magic, backed up the emotional side of the disguise as well.

  For weeks, Shirrin had been essentially a non-entity. Oh, sure, she had intervened against the mob, and the presence of Imperial troops on the streets in the days after that incident proved that she had some influence, but the woman herself had vanished like so much smoke. One could not speak to her, during that period of time, and escape the impression that she didn’t wish to be involved, that the continued existence of the Trabakondai and their part in the pn was a burden on her. The effect reverberated; Frasalu kept to herself, Sothvam started acting as though he were still a child of the streets, and the others often came to Frasalu asking—in coded nguage—why she hadn’t left the city already. And then the messages had started going out, asking that all of them gather together in one pce, the same river-side warehouse where they had first met with Bellerophon. The night before the second grand swindle, Shirrin had reappeared.

  Never before had she so fully embodied the myth of the Witch-Queen. Shirrin arrived amidst a shroud of darkness and the fpping of raven’s wings, cd all in silk and gauze, bck and blue fabric spilling from her like smoke. When she had spoken, it was not loud or bombastic; indeed, the gang had felt the need to gather close in order to take in every word. What her words did have was purpose.

  The rage had returned, and brought with it righteous purpose. Shirrin did not stumble, she did not hesitate. Her pn for Bellerophon was as sturdy and as certain as the bricks of a fortress, and she built the fortress right in front of Frasalu’s eyes. Bellerophon was a monster, a murderer, corrupt to the very core, and Shirrin was there to make sure that he burned for it. His fate had been sealed from the moment he had accepted the initial offer, and now it only remained for the sentence to be carried out: Shirrin was the judge, but Frasalu and the rest would be her executioners.

  Frasalu gave Sothvam a final once-over. She still preferred his appearance before the transformation, but his new svelte look was one which she could appreciate just as well, when there was time for such things. Frasalu gave the rest of the room a look. To her gaze, it appeared that everyone else was just as ready.

  “Everybody dressed?” Frasalu asked. “All the clothes adjusted, the jewelry put on, and all the other things?”

  “How dare you accuse Diorda the Magnificent of being anything but perfect in her accoutrements,” Diorda said, putting on her most imperious, noble voice. “I have had greater women than you whipped for such insults.”

  Everybody chuckled at Diorda’s spot-on impression of a noblewoman who had more hubris than common decency. Everyone was ready.

  “Time to be off, then.”

  How Shirrin had been able to secure them the use of a house in such a wealthy district of Chrysopolis, Frasalu had no idea. It was obvious that the pce had a usual owner by the decorations, but somehow, on that particur night, it was entirely empty, even the servants having found somewhere else to stay. Just another flex of Shirrin’s impossible influence.

  Waiting outside were three carriages of the fanciest variety, with leather suspensions and bronze fittings. The disguised street-thieves piled in, already practicing their performance. Two crucial aspects were necessary to create the full, intimidating effect: silence and grace. To move gracefully meant total control, absolute surety, that the secret society’s dominance over Chrysopolis extended into every corridor and chamber. To move silently meant that the members of the secret society could appear wherever they pleased. The effect was somewhat ruined by the creaking of the three carriages being boarded, but some things couldn’t be fixed.

  A short while ter, the three carriages stopped outside of Bellerophon’s compound. The sun had already set by then, leaving the streets illuminated only by occasional oil mps. A dozen figures emerged onto that shadowed street, oil-fmes glinting off of their golden accessories. They formed up for a moment, wordlessly measuring one another’s preparedness for what was to come. Frasalu was the first to make for Bellerophon’s front door.

  There was a bodyguard at the door, of course. His sword was sharp, his armor stalwart: but he was easily defeated via the careful application of a handful of gold coins. The man left his post with enough money to buy himself into business as a shopkeeper.

  A dozen shadowed figures drifted through Bellerophon’s home, startling those few sves who still worked at that dark hour. They knew, seemingly by magic, exactly which way to go, which door belonged to the Senator’s personal chambers, Shirrin’s instructions proving completely accurate. This time, there was no hesitation, no pause; by the time Frasalu’s hand fell upon the tch of Bellerophon’s room, it was too te to pause. The members of the secret society which ruled Chrysopolis filtered into the room beyond, leaving Sothvam at the back to close the door behind them.

  Bellerophon snorted as the sound of footsteps roused him from deep sleep, and for several moments he tossed and turned, gasping in confusion as he reacquired his bearings. Slowly, his breathing slowed, and Bellerophon fell silent, for the terror of an unexpected awakening was repced by the horror of realization.

  “Oh, it’s you again. Why are you here?”

  Frasalu, as always, took the lead. “There is a reckoning at hand, Bellerophon. You’ve caused a great deal of upset, and now it must be rectified.”

  “What? No. What are you talking about? This is nonsense, gibberish!”

  Komshirn muttered under his breath, something like, “As though you’d know the difference.” Bellerophon didn’t hear him.

  “Far from it,” Frasalu continued. “Do you have any idea how much damage you have caused?”

  Bellerophon’s chest suddenly puffed out in righteous indignation. “You gave me that letter. What did you expect me to do with it?”

  Diorda ughed, an evil cackle that nearly startled Frasalu out of her act altogether. She chuckled, as did the rest of the group, and reminded herself to praise Diorda for her acting ter. “How bloated must your ego be,” Diorda said, “that you assume this is about the letter?”

  “What else could it be about? The Emperor’s accodes?” Bellerophon narrowed his eyes. “The assassination plot?”

  “Assassination plot?” Sothvam blurted out. “You pn to—”

  Frasalu held out a hand, and to Sothvam’s credit, he didn’t need more than that to fall silent. That was, indeed, concerning news, news that would have to be reyed to Shirrin, but it was not the subject of the hour. Thankfully, Bellerophon’s expression of nervousness had remained fixed in spite of the show of weakness.

  “The docks, Bellerophon. It’s about the docks.”

  “I—I did exactly as you ordered,” Bellerophon said, his brow trembling. “The fire wasn’t my fault, I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t mean to,” Sothvam said bitterly. “You merely sent the cheapest thugs money could buy to set light to the ship, heedless of any possible consequence from entrusting such matters to your… lessers. And now all of the city has paid the price.”

  “The price of grain creeps higher and higher with each passing day,” said Frasalu, “as the bureaucracy struggles to find alternate sources.”

  “Countless men of wealth and influence have found themselves unable to repay their debts, with trade slowed to a crawl,” Diorda continued.

  “And now, as the city comes closer to civil strife, those who do not wish to suffer violence find themselves with no way to flee,” said Sothvam, completing the line they’d spent all day practicing. “The city’s already on the brink, Bellerophon. Chaos is bad for business, and your carelessness exacerbated the situation far beyond what we were prepared to account for.”

  Bellerophon threw himself out of bed, sending the sheets rolling to the floor. For a moment, he said nothing; but by the way his eyes flicked about, looking down at the gang’s hand level, he was no doubt preparing for a fight. They appeared unarmed, though in truth at least half of them had concealed knives in case he tried something drastic. Their aim was to inflict an entirely different kind of suffering, and Bellerophon recognized that.

  “My profoundest apologies, to all of you. How might I make recompense for my error? Fallible though I may be, I at least like to hope that I am honorable.”

  “Tch. Five hundred gold nomismos.”

  Bellerophon’s eyes went wide. “Five hundred?”

  “Five hundred,” Frasalu repeated, her relish in Bellerophon’s terror soaking into her tone. “And that, I assure you, is a very generous number. There were many of us who argued for a far higher sum as punishment.”

  Bellerophon swallowed and choked, drowning in open air. After a while he said, “Five hundred… I cannot possibly pay five hundred. Three hundred, perhaps, if I am given time.”

  Shirrin had expected this reaction: her knowledge of Bellerophon’s finances was absolutely uncanny. When he said he “could not possibly” pay five hundred, he meant that doing so would require substantial inconvenience, liquidating his own assets and begging for coin from lenders. If push came to shove, he could pay even more than five hundred. Much, much more than five hundred.

  “Very well, then. It seems that the depths of your loyalty to us have limits. Which means that our loyalty has limits as well. Did you know, Bellerophon, that there are many within this city who have been chomping at the bit to learn the identity of the man behind the arson? Very powerful people indeed. Not to mention how the public and the courts will react to the truth being uncovered…”

  “No… I…” Bellerophon staggered, his back crashing into the wall of his bedchamber. For a moment Frasalu even thought he’d fainted, but after a while he regained enough sense to speak again. “Five hundred,” he said. “I can have five hundred for you by… three days. Give me three days.”

  Frasalu turned to Sothvam, and exercised one of the many skills they’d learned on the streets: the wordless negotiation, conducted entirely in gesture and expression. Sothvam questioned if Bellerophon might be convinced to move up the timeline, for in such unstable times, speed was of the essence. Frasalu pointed out that it might not be a matter of persuasion at all, that he might have been physically unable to acquire the money any faster. Sothvam relented.

  “Three days,” Frasalu said. “Five hundred nomismos, three days from now. And bring it to… the scene of your crime.”

  That was the final blow, one st torture specifically designed by Shirrin to bring Bellerophon to the brink. If she was correct about the type of man he was, Bellerophon did everything in his power to separate himself from the consequences of his actions, and being brought face to face with his own carnage would be acid to his psyche. As it was, he was so distraught that he barely flinched, nodding to show his tormentors that he had heard them.

  “I shall see you then,” Frasalu said.

  With a gesture, she bid her helpers leave. She was the st to go, walking backwards through the open door, terrified that she would stumble but unable to let go of the effect. From there, the dozen members of the richest secret society in all of Chrysopolis retreated in deathly silence, not daring to so much as cough into their elbows until they were two streets down from Bellerophon’s compound.

  Then they celebrated, bursting into appuse and raucous jeering. They had done what they had come to do, and now that they had, it was time for partying. With how much gold they were all wearing, they could afford to drink until dawn and beyond.

  …

  How odd, that a man who lived so much of his life in service of coin found the substance of it so unfamiliar. And yet, gold did not seem like a real substance. The small satchel—five hundred nomismos—was impossibly weighty, even its small size straining the wrist of its holder, dragging him down with every step forward. Such weight could not possibly belong to the matter itself; the only expnation was that the value of the gold had become material, gravity via importance and worth rather than physical qualities.

  If Bellerophon weren’t completely full of dread, he might have found it funny the way that his mind turned to philosophy. He had never been one for philosophy and deep thought; always the practical for Bellerophon, always matters of money and power and social pride, never high-minded questions of where things came from and how they worked. Better to let the priests answer such questions. But under the circumstances, thinking about practical matters would lead his thoughts astray with feelings about the amount of money he was being forced to give up, and all the sacrifices he’d been forced to make to accumute it. So, philosophy it was.

  Certainly, the idea of metaphysical weight and physical weight intersecting had a certain appeal to it. Was it not often the case that, when in the presence of an important man, one would find oneself drawn to him, much as all objects are drawn to the world? And yet, such a pull could be resisted, as by a tall building or a bird. Perhaps these two traits were reted after all, and weight was merely the importance pced on the world by the gods.

  All the philosophizing also meant that Bellerophon did not have to pay attention to his senses. If anything, the evidence of his senses would have a worse impact on his mental state than practical logic. Even after weeks had passed, the Chrysopolis docks still bore the marks of Bellerophon’s mistake. New construction was beginning, and many ships had come from across the Empire to begin working vacated routes, but one could not look around without seeing signs of the fire. The new construction, fresh beams and recently-applied stucco, couldn’t cover up all of the burn marks. Many of the ships were sitting far out in the harbor, the piers meant to accommodate them only bckened piles sticking out from the water line. Every few steps there would be a small shrine to the Golden Lord or to Morthan the Inevitable, each holding the name of a dockworker who had died with smoke in his lungs.

  How many had died? Could Bellerophon have done something, anything, to prevent it? If he had accompanied the arsonists himself, might he have stopped the fire from spreading? Or would it have been better if he did not accept the letter at all, found a different way to prove the Emperor’s wrongdoing? He had already seen the letter’s contents, after all, and could have found other sources to lend legitimacy to the accusation. How many had died in the fire, and how many were yet to die as a consequence?

  These were not questions that the man with the sack of golden coins was capable of answering. In fact, they were not questions he thought to ask at all. Bellerophon was much too busy distracting himself with thoughts first of philosophy and then, once he reached a certain part of the docks, with thoughts of remembering where he was going. He’d had to ask where Storm had been berthed before it was burned, seeing as he’d never been there.

  The epicenter of the fire was, of course, where the damage was the worst, and the construction had not so much as begun. In an area the size of two or three city blocks nothing at all stood, even the colpsed timbers having burned into ash in the initial confgration. There was essentially nobody about, even the beggars preferring to dwell in pces that kept warmer. That was good; fewer potential witnesses. It did raise another question, though: who was Bellerophon supposed to meet with? Nobody about meant no masked figures, and no obvious servants of the previous.

  In the end, Bellerophon simply went to the oceanside, near where he assumed the pier had been, and waited. He was soon proven correct. One moment, he was alone: the next, from shadowed hiding pces and pin sight, they emerged.

  The members of the secret society did not look like they had the st two times Bellerophon had seen them. If it weren’t for the identical designs on the gold and sliver masks, he would have never believed that these were the same people who held total dominance over Chrysopolis’s city politics. From the neck down they were fully disguised as street folk, dirty tunics and hunched shoulders, pying the role not only in dress but in movement and attitude.

  Only as they came close, five of them surrounding Bellerophon in a half-circle, did the disguises fade away. A simple matter of posture was all it took to make soot-stained tunics appear for all the world like the finest silken attire.

  The leader, the same woman who always spoke on behalf of the organization, took the lead. “Do you have the coin?” she said.

  Bellerophon held up the pouch. The woman gnced back and forth, as though silently conferring with her companions. Another one of them, a man, stepped forward and took the money out of Bellerophon’s hand. He took a step back, then opened the pouch and stuck a hand in, letting the coins run through his fingers.

  “It’s gold,” he said.

  “We can count sums ter,” the lead woman muttered. She gred at Bellerophon, her eyes dark pits in the mask. “Your secret remains in pce, Bellerophon. For now, at least.”

  “Thank you,” Bellerophon said, making a brief half-bow. “I am gd that this matter has been completed to your satisfaction. Now that the debt is settled, I hope that our retionship may continue to be mutually beneficial.”

  They ughed in his face, openly and with gusto, all five of them.

  “You think this is the end?” one of them said, old woman going by her voice. “You won’t get out of the rat trap so easily, boy.”

  “What? I paid you five hundred nomismos, what more could you want from me?”

  “More gold, of course,” the leader said. Even through the mask he could hear her smile. “You think five hundred nomismos covers all the loss of revenue from the disaster you caused? Not a chance. You’re going to be making payments to us for a long, long, long time.”

  Bellerophon was too numb to faint, and too terrified to respond. He stood, catatonic, until the true rulers of Chrysopolis retreated into the ruins.

  SaffronDragon